Chapter 3 - The Ghost of Eleanor Hale
At 2:00 AM, unable to sleep, I slipped out of my room while the rest of the penthouse was dark.
I needed documents. If I was going to be thrown to the wolves, I needed to inspect the cage they were trying to build around me.
My home office was already half-dismantled. Madison’s blue painter’s tape crisscrossed the walls, outlining where her ring lights, acoustic panels, and vanity stations were slated to go. My diplomas from Northwestern and my CPA certificate had already been taken down from the wall and stacked carelessly on the floor near the wastebasket.
A surge of white-hot fury tightened in my throat.
I walked to the heavy mahogany filing cabinet in the corner—one of the few pieces of furniture brought from the Oak Park house. I unlocked the bottom drawer with the small brass key I kept hidden inside my jewelry box.
Inside were the estate folders: Mom’s medical bills, the funeral expenses, the tax returns from the final five years of their marriage.
Three years ago, I had been too blinded by sorrow to conduct a forensic audit of my parents' affairs. When Dad told me that Mom had left behind mountains of debt and that the Oak Park house had to be sold in a fire sale just to break even, I had accepted it. I had wired forty thousand dollars into Dad's personal account to clear what he called "unresolved family liabilities."
I pulled out the thick manila envelope labeled *PROBATE & ASSET DIVISION – ELEANOR HALE*.
I sat on the floor beneath my desk, using the flashlight on my phone to read the fine print.
The first document was a letter from Mom’s estate attorney, dated just three weeks before her passing. My eyes scanned the lines, then stopped dead at the third paragraph.
> *"...regarding the Oak Park property, the title remains solely in the name of Eleanor Hale via the family trust. The remaining mortgage balance of $112,000 has been paid in full through the accelerated life insurance rider. As per Eleanor’s explicit directive, the net proceeds from the sale of the real property—appraised at $685,000—shall be placed into a custodial trust for the benefit of Evelyn Hale, designated as executor..."*
My breath hitched.
The house had sold for $690,000. Dad had told me the bank took everything due to home equity lines of credit Mom had supposedly taken out to finance Logan’s early businesses.
I flipped frantically through the pages.
There were no home equity loans in Mom’s name. None.
What was attached instead was an amendment form, signed two days before Mom died in the ICU—a document transferring the entirety of the house sale proceeds into a joint checking account under the names of Richard Hale and Logan Hale.
The signature at the bottom of the page, purportedly written by Eleanor Hale, was shaky. But it wasn't just the tremor of a dying woman. The slant was wrong. Mom always crossed her 't's with a distinctive upward flourish that hooked to the right. The signature on this legal transfer was flat, hesitant, mechanical.
It was Richard’s handwriting attempting to mimic Eleanor’s.
I sat in the dark, cold sweat breaking across my forehead.
The Oak Park house hadn't been lost to debt. It had been liquidated. Seven hundred thousand dollars had vanished into an account controlled by my father and my brother—the very money Mom had intended to use to secure my future.
And while they sat on nearly three-quarters of a million dollars, they had let me drain my savings, mortgage my career, and surrender $8,700 every single month to house them in luxury.
"Looking for something, Evie?"
A shadow fell across the office floor.
I snapped the folder shut and looked up. Logan stood in the doorway, wearing silk pajama bottoms and holding a glass of water. His eyes were heavy with sleep, but his mouth carried that familiar, arrogant sneer.
"What did you do with Mom’s estate, Logan?" I asked, my voice dangerously low.
Logan didn't flinch. He leaned against the doorframe, taking a slow sip from his glass. "I don't know what you're talking about. Mom's affairs were settled three years ago. You were there."
"Mom left the Oak Park equity to me. In trust." I held up the original legal directive. "She knew Dad would gamble it or hand it to you. How did this amendment get filed?"
Logan chuckled—a wet, dismissive sound that made my skin crawl. "You really are pathetic, you know that? Always digging through old papers, looking for a reason why Mom loved you more. Newsflash, sis: Mom knew you were self-sufficient. You’re a corporate drone. You’ll always survive. But she knew I had big plans. She wanted that money to go where it could actually multiply."
"It didn't multiply," I hissed, rising to my feet. "You spent it. Both of you."
May you like
"We invested it," Logan corrected sharply. "In my ventures. In Dad’s lifestyle. And tomorrow, this apartment becomes the collateral for the Series A funding of Hale Media Group. An investor is flying in from Miami on Monday. He needs to see a seven-figure headquarters, not a coffee shop in Wicker Park. So pack your files, Evelyn. The past is dead. And you’re in our way."
***
